Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three]

by Nick Pollotta

  "Total so far, or this year alone?” Raul asked rudely.

  "Sissy merlin,” she sneered in contempt.

  He stood erect. “And proud of it."

  Without warning, Raul jerked backwards and fell sprawling to the ground. A heartbeat later an echoing cra-ack! of a large caliber rifle rolled over the land.

  "Jules Verne!” I bellowed, and the rest of my team headed for the center of the earth.

  "Pink Floyd!” Father Donaher loudly added, ramming shells into his shotgun.

  Arching an eyebrow, Katrina stared at the priest. “Pink Floyd?” she repeated puzzled, as hot bullets zinged by overhead. “Dark Side of the Moon? Wish You Were Here?"

  "The Wall!” Raul shouted gesturing from his prone position. With a sparkling flash, a chest-high barrier of shimmering ethereal energy appeared and four more rifle rounds nosily ricocheted off the magical shield.

  "Are you okay?” Jessica asked urgently. Edging closer, she yanked apart the top of her camera bag and pulled out a medical kit and plastic bottle of Healing Potion #4. It was the good stuff, strictly reserved for emergencies only.

  Tugging at the ragged hole in his starry black T-shirt, Raul frowned as the molded body armor underneath came into view. There was a gray metallic smear directly above his heart. “Hey, they completely obliterated Uranus!"

  "You're fine,” Jess announced, closing the bag.

  "Return fire, on my mark!” I growled, rising to a crouching position. “One, two, three ... go!"

  In unison, the team stood and emptied our weapons at the distant foes. Since we were armed with pistols and such, they were eminently safe from our retaliation. It was mostly for morale, but what the hell, there was always blind luck.

  Only Father Donaher didn't join the volley discharge. As a Catholic priest he was forbidden to take a human life under any circumstances. Technicalities, always technicalities.

  "Are you people nuts?” Mindy admonished haughtily, twisting both hands on the grip of her sword. “Using short-barreled pistols at an unseen target over two hundred meters away?"

  In a shatter of glass, a screaming figure crashed out of the upper windows of the hotel and tumbled to the hard pavement ten stories below. From the reaction, it appeared that the concrete was very hard and unfriendly at this time of year.

  "Of course, there's always blind luck,” she relented.

  "Divine providence,” Donaher corrected.

  Working the bolt on the M60 to clear a jam, George grunted. “Thought that was in Rhode Island."

  "Heathen."

  "Democrat,” George corrected.

  Thumbing in fresh rounds, Father Donaher snorted. “Same thing."

  Just then, a thin finger of flame stretched out from the hotel and impacted on the barrier with pyrotechnic results.

  "What in the ... that was a LAW rocket!” George stormed, as the mountain breeze blew the blast cloud away. “A light-anti-tank rocket! Who are these guys?"

  Retrieving my sunglasses from the dirt, I tucked them back into place. “You tell me, Sundance."

  Adjusting the focus with my Donaher thumb, I found the hotel and trailed upward until I located our attackers on the top floor. Long rifle barrels protruded from open windows and I got a fine clear view of them: two men and a woman.

  Then the world went very still. Because through the Kirlian sensitive lenses, I could also see the aura of the normally invisible tattoo on their foreheads. A very famous tattoo. The design of a dagger through the moon.

  "It's the Scion,” I announced calmly as possible.

  At the base of the hotel, the smashed body stood as a large hairy form and dashed inside the hotel. “And they're the werewolves."

  More bullets came our way, as another LAW rocket streaked by and missed hitting the invisible shield by scant inches. It disappeared into the distance and exploded somewhere in the forest.

  "The Scion?” Katrina asked, rubbing her wand.

  Keeping things brief, I explained. The Scion of the Silver Dagger was a lunatic organization dedicated to destroying the world for no particular reason that we have ever been able to discover. Sort of a dark version of the Bureau, they practiced voodoo, witchcraft, black magic, ate human flesh, and were generally considered on the level of something to scrap off your shoe before entering a house.

  "Saints preserve us!” Father Donaher cried, smacking his forehead. “Ed, this isn't a lost Bureau base, its one of theirs!"

  Yeow! What a notion.

  "It certainly would explain the weird offensive devices we encountered,” George commented dryly, fingering the US Army Colt .45 on his belt. “Who else but the Scion would have killer crabgrass and military weapons?"

  "A militant arm of Green Peace?” Mindy joked, her hands twisting on the pommel of her sword.

  "But what is the Scion of the Silver Dagger doing with an occult convention,” Jessica asked petulantly, her camera clicking steadily. “Holding a recruiting drive?"

  On my command, the team stood, fired, and crouched again.

  "That's certainly a possibility,” I acknowledged, reloading quickly. The spent brass shells rang musically as they bounced off the hard ground. “They certainly have suffered a lot of personnel losses recently. Especially after their massive failure with the Forever Castle."

  "True enough."

  Another LAW rocket hit the shimmering barrier in strident fury. Loud, too. I yawned to pop my ears back into working order.

  "An occult convention where something went horribly wrong. Or worse, something went horribly right.” Mindy blinked, and shook her head. “Causing Hadleyville to be destroyed, and every surviving member of the Scion transformed into a werewolf."

  "A sentient werewolf?"

  His big freckled map of Ireland melted into a frown. “Feh,” Father Donaher muttered.

  Thumbing fresh rounds into my revolvers, I agreed. Feh on toast. With ketchup and anchovies.

  "Raul, how long can you hold this barrier?” George asked, laying an assortment of grenades on the ground. Father Donaher was doing the same, and Mindy was hastily assembling a compound bow from her pocket arsenal of secret ninja deathdealers. Patent pending.

  Spreading powders on the dirt in a rune pattern, the mage loftily sniffed his disdain. “Against purely physical weapons? No problem. Domes take a lot of power, Globes even more so. But this? Piffle."

  Father Donaher blinked, and shook his head. “Piffle? Now where did he learn language like that?"

  Raul jerked a thumb. “From Ed, of course."

  Naturally, I was shocked to the very core of my being. “Now just a dog-gone minute there, buckaroo—"

  Shouting something incomprehensible, Katrina stood and from her cupped hands there lanced a swirling cone of lightning and boiling flame. But the lambent outpouring of concentrated Death spells thinned into nothingness before it reached the hotel. The distance was just too great, and neither wizard could stand long enough to draw the size pentagram necessary to cast a long-distance conjure.

  Cra-ack! Zing!

  Slumping his shoulders, George blinked, and shook his head. “Up yours,” he growled.

  Jessica stared at him intently.

  Activating my wristwatch, I got only a carrier-wave buzz. Interference from the hotel must be blocking the radio signals. And every telepath was off-line. Damn. So much for summoning air support. A renovation via saturation bombing was just what this place needed.

  Slumping her shoulders, Mindy blinked, and shook her head.

  More incoming rounds. Cra-rack! Zing! Whoosh! Boom!

  Wisely, I decided it was time to get tough. “Katrina, take Donaher and Jessica and teleport back to the RV for our combat armor and heavy-weapons trunk."

  Slumping her shoulders, Katrina blinked and shook her head. “Da, Edwardo."

  Suddenly feeling very tired, I blinked, and shook my head. What had I been about to say? Oh, yes. “Donaher, assist her with the big—"

  Diving forward, Jessica grabbed at George and jer
ked backwards. As she came clear, I could see that my darling wife was holding the pull rings from a brace of grenades.

  "Jesus Christ!” George screamed, frantically clawing at the ordinance dangling from his military web harness on his chest.

  But before he could do anything, there was a tremendous smoky explosion and everything went pitch black.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rocking gently, I came awake with both of my .357 Magnums out and searching for danger. Who? What? Where? Ah.

  "Hello, dear,” Jess said from behind the wheel of the van. Through the windows I could see that we were speeding along a highway somewhere. Sprawled on the rear couches was the rest of the team. Nobody seemed hurt and our weapons were readily evident.

  "Hi, hon,” I mouthed around a flannel tongue. Then as my head cleared, memories flooded in and I coldly aimed a Smith & Wesson at the love of my life. If the human sitting near me was Jessica. Her aura read human norm, but that wasn't good enough.

  "Holmes,” I demanded. If she gave the wrong answer, I would have to move fast after blowing her head off to grab the wheel and keep us from crashing. Luckily, the road was fairly even and straight. I didn't think we were in West Virginia anymore. Ohio, maybe. Oz?

  Maintaining speed, Jessica gave me a rueful smile. “Watson. My, my, aren't you Mr. Paranoid."

  Ain't that the truth. But that was only because I had so many enemies and they were everywhere. I sneaked a quick peek under my car seat. Okay, safe for the moment. Maybe.

  "Mother's maiden name?” I asked grimly.

  "Yang-Wu,” she sighed. “And I was born in Evanston."

  "What happened in Honolulu?"

  "We ran out of massage oil.” Jess cocked an eyebrow. “Satisfied?"

  "Yeah, sorry,” I said, holstering my weapons, and feeling slightly foolish. How was I supposed to know the stuff was flammable?

  She shrugged. “That's okay, Ed. Business is business."

  True enough. While it was not an everyday occurrence for my wife to kidnap the team in the middle of a mission, clones and doppelgangers were a common danger in our line of work, and someday, it wouldn't be my wife I would wake up alongside to. Which would put me in big trouble on two counts.

  Just then, a sign flashed by my window stating the miles to the Indiana border. Wow. Had long had we been asleep?

  "So what happened?” I asked, reclining in the front seat.

  "I set off some sleep gas grenades,” she explained.

  "That explains the lovely cat litter flavor in my mouth."

  "Hey, I don't make'em. I just use'em."

  Abruptly, Mindy sat up. “Oh, it was a gas grenade,” she said, chewing her tongue. “Ick. What a taste. I'll start some tea.” The martial artist immediately moved towards the tiny kitchenette in the rear of the van.

  Sounding like a foghorn on steroids, Father Donaher gave a yawn that threatened to implode the windows and blinked consciousness into his face. “What the ... ah, of course. Anesthesia gas."

  "Tea?” Mindy offered, busy with the kettle.

  "Please, lass. Thank you."

  Stretching his arms to the ceiling, George really put the stress test on his Army shirt, and for a moment you could see the hard muscle underneath his fat. His jacket was laying on the floor and our pet lizard Amigo was half inside one of the pockets munching loudly on what sounded like cookies or bones.

  "Geez, Jess,” George said, rubbing his temples. “You could have asked me for the K47L cans. No need to steal ‘em."

  "Sorry,” my wife sang out from behind the wheel. “There was no time."

  Damnation! Had everybody figured this out but me?

  Groaning softly, Katrina wobbled erect and ran fingers through her long blonde hair in a crude abolution. “Sleep gas,” she rumbled, tucking a partially exposed breast back into her red top. “Bleh."

  And right on cue, Raul groaned into life. “Oh god, I hate knockout gas,” he moaned, massaging his temples. “What's the chance of getting a beer?"

  "Ed?” Mindy asked, glancing my way.

  After a moment's hesitation, I nodded yes. Mages had a tendency to drink heavily so we had to monitor them. On the other hand, absolutely nothing cleared the biochemical crude from your mouth like a frothy cold brew. Except, perhaps, another cold frothy beer.

  All by itself, the door to our small refrigerator opened and a six pack of Bud started to float out.

  "One each,” I clarified.

  Two beers broke free from the levitating pack and wafted over to Raul and Katrina. Now that's what I call a light beer. The wizards formally clinked containers and drank from the closed cans. I was unimpressed, having seen the Invisible Straw trick before. It was how we sneaked outside food into a movie theatre.

  After serving George and Donaher, Mindy passed a couple of steaming ceramic mugs to us, and I held the wheel for a moment while Jess added mint and lemon. I took mine straight.

  "Okay,” I said after a preliminary sip. “Report. How did we get into the van?"

  Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Jessica lifted a plain copper bracelet into view. “I used this magic bracelet taken from Raul to teleport us here, and drove away as fast as possible."

  Wiping the moisture off his hand, Raul accepted the bracelet, and slid it back on his wrist. The copper band was drained at present, but the Recharge spell was a minor matter. Raul could do such things in his sleep and often did. Which explained why nobody ever bothered the wizard during nap time.

  "Why the improvisational retreat?” Father Donaher asked, placing aside his empty mug.

  Shifting gear, my wife maneuvered around an 18-wheeler full of livestock. Thank God for air conditioning.

  "Had to,” she explained, as we accelerated past the portable barn. “We were being systematically hit with a mind-probe by an enemy psychic. God knows what information they got already."

  "Was it a pro, an expert telepath?” George asked frowning. None of us trusted mentalists, after seeing what Jess used to be able to do with the bad guys. Chilling stuff.

  Glancing sideways, Jess gave a grim nod. “Somebody so good, you guys didn't even know that it was happening."

  "Then how did you?” Mindy asked bluntly.

  Here Jessica faltered, her face pinching tight as if a door had just slammed shut. “I...” she started, then tried again. “I used to do it often enough that I can recognize the signs."

  There was a respectful moment of silence from the team. Until only a few months ago, my lovely bride had been the top telepath in the Bureau, which meant the whole damn world. But after battling a fledgling god, she had been blasted into a normal human. She still possessed an eidetic memory, but her vaunted telepathic powers were gone forever, and nothing in Heaven or Hell could make them return. This I knew for a fact since I had personally asked the management of both places.

  Would it be the same as one of us going blind or deaf? I didn't know. Nobody but another telepath could know. But the hard facts were that all of her fellow mentalists were now dead, and it was only her debilitating handicap that allowed her to survive. What did my lady feel deep down inside, remorse, shame? Or was it envy?

  Impulsively, I reached out to touch her and Jess shied away concentrating on her driving, her features an iron mask of neutrality. It was at that precise instant I finally realized exactly how much my wife missed her telepathic abilities.

  "Well, if the situation ever occurs again, let's code name your tactic quote, Friendly Fire, end quote,” I suggested, lowering my hand. “That way, if you're a bit slower and one of us is a bit faster, we can avoid those expensive dry cleaning bills.” Brains were a really difficult stain to get out of a white line shirt, plus a tad disgusting.

  Frowning, George turned his head from looking out the window. “Jessica, exactly where are we going?"

  "Nowhere in particular,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the road.

  "Faith, lass, and why are we going nowhere so fast?�
�� Donaher asked puzzled, glancing about outside through the windows.

  My wife jerked a thumb backwards. “Them,” she said.

  Reaching down, I jerked the lever underneath my seat and swiveled about. Amid the rest of the meager traffic, there were a couple of perfectly normal 18-wheel Mack trucks behind us.

  In a standard #2 surveillance formation. Oh fudge.

  Grabbing his rosary, Father Donaher started reciting a prayer of protection.

  Turning around, Katrina splayed a golden light from her wand about the van checking our defensive seals, and George activated the HumBug unit, a nifty little device we had stolen, er, borrowed got from the CIA. It made our car windows vibrate in an irregular ultrasonic pattern so that anybody using a maser beam couldn't hear our voices through the glass, also did a damn fine personal massage.

  "They've been following us since we departed West Virginia,” Jess announced, confirming the suspicion. “I decided not to tell you about them until everybody got a chance to recover from the sleep gas. Let you acclimatize and wake up."

  Even though annoyed, I growled that was a good idea. Coming awake groggy from the gas, I had almost shot my wife on sight. If she had been frantically yelling that we were being trailed by enemy forces...

  "Any hostile moves?” Mindy asked, her rainbow sword out and ready.

  Shifting gears again, Jess shook her head. “Nope. But where I go, they go."

  Sliding back a panel in the ceiling, Mindy liberated a pair of binoculars from the overhead weapons rack. “Okay, folks, the five trucks appeared to be perfectly ordinary tractor-trailer assemblies,” she announced, staring out the window. “A high riding 6-wheel cab, with 12-wheel trailers being pulled along behind. Different colors and different ages. Sides made of unpainted corrugated steel. No perceptible openings, presumably a double-door in the back. One has a compressed gas cylinder on the bottom. Must be refrigerated. There were a variety of company names on the trucks, and ICC numbers. Looks like a simple buddy convoy. Possibly a couple of independent truckers out on a TSD, or piecemeal run."

  "Faith, lass, I agree,” Father Donaher said. “Now could you try that again, in English, please?"